


if at first you don't succeed

by dormant_bender



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Champions League, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Dialogue Heavy, Disappointment, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Game(s), Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Practice makes perfect, though it was naive to strive to be something that didn't genuinely exist.</p><p>In which Ter Stegen blames himself for the loss against Atlético Madrid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if at first you don't succeed

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so. I watched the game earlier, and I was disappointed.
> 
> So of course I had to write something to cope. :l

Practice makes perfect, though it was naive to strive to be something that didn't genuinely exist. No matter how strenuous practice is, it is nothing compared to the actual game, with players who have the equal amount of heart as your team does. 

Determination was present in everyone's eyes on the pitch, the blond had immediately noticed, and he was aware that he was to be sharp on the eyes as per usual. But nothing would have prepared him for the first goal of the game; he could hear his rapid pulse blistering against his eardrums, eyes darting back and forth. 

Yet he had failed in averting the ball, and Atletico had scored the first goal of that evening.

But that was okay, the blond keeper mused to himself, as he shakes out his gloved hands and jumps upon the balls of his feet. Because there was still the aggregate playing into the game, so no worries. There were still a multitude of opportunities to score as long as everyone kept their head solely in the game without any room for error.

Wrong again.

But alas once more Griezmann pulled through once more with a penalty kick. Once more he was unable to defend for his team and had allowed the goal that made all the difference in the end. With a 3-2 aggregate, Barcelona had all but lost, even minutes before the game had truly ended.

Disappointment singes through his veins at the loss but he doesn't let it show as he smiles reassuringly towards his teammates as everything wraps up and they abandon the pitch for the locker room. There isn't much to say to anyone and no one really has the strength to comment on anything other than the loss; it's far too quiet in the Barcelona locker room, and it's disturbing.

There are sullen pats on the back as everyone reluctantly changes into the clothing they had adorned on the ride to the stadium, far too bummed out to shower properly. Marc feels partially responsible for the loss and tries to avoid all eye contact that is directed towards his general vicinity, not even registering the sympathetic glance that Rafinha casts him.

Now: Marc was far from a sore loser, he was always the one to congratulate the winning team with a wholehearted smile with no foulness in expression and no murmured annoyances. But all the German desired now was to return to the hotel where he would surely hole himself up in until the flight out of the city.

The silence continues even through the van-ride towards the hotel, the only noises echoing from around the van and the soft shutters of cameras clicking and flashing at the players. Slowly but surely the team is ushered inside the safety of the four-star hotel, making a bee-line towards the elevators in pursuit of their own rooms.

Rafinha nudges him in the elevator but he doesn't trust his voice to speak, instead offering a shake of his head. An agitated sigh emanates from the Brazilian but he doesn't press the issue further as the elevator dings on their floor. The brunet's hands go to the German's hips to guide him forward toward their shared room.

He produces the key-card necessary and slides it simply into the slot, once more pressing the German forward and into the room. Once inside the brunet groans and grabs onto the retreating form's arm, tugging him back and towards him.

"Hey, hey, hey.." As always his voice is soft and saccharine like honey as he speaks, dark eyes gazing up and searching for pretty blues. "Look at me, or at least say something—anything, I don't care. Just don't ignore me like this." Gentle hands brush the sweaty strands of blond clinging to his forehead aside, fingers gingerly trailing along his cheeks, thumbs circling the smooth skin there.

Eyes, resembling the oceans with their glassiness, stare pointedly at the area directly above the brunet's head and shakes his head once. "I don't want to talk about it, Rafa."

Of course the brunet wouldn't take that for an answer as he stands on his tiptoes in an attempt to find his way into the latter's vision, "If it's bothering you we probably should. Come on, let's sit down." And like that the blond allows the brunet to tug him towards the direction of the bed, plopping down onto it unceremoniously, patting the spot beside him for emphasis. "Sit, Ter."

And the blond obliges as he always does when it comes to the Brazilian. "It's not bothering me at all. I'm just tired, I guess." Like before, he still doesn't meant Rafinha's gaze, and that's enough to make the brunet scoff.

"And I'm not Rafael fucking Alcantara." This is no joking matter, he's aware, but he sees the faint twitch of a smile on those slightly chapped lips and that's something. "It's okay to be upset, I know I am. But I'm not gonna mope about it and think about what the team could have done differently. Honestly? We weren't playing the best game today, it happens. They won, fair and square, and I can't complain about it. They played the beautiful game, our game was just a little—.. Well, ugly. Today, at least."

Another flicker of a smile hints at the corner of his lips but it doesn't plaster fully across his face. Marc just releases an outstretched sigh, placing his palms against his knees, and hunching forward. "I could have stopped those goals, Rafa. I should have tried harder or—or something, I should have done something, then they wouldn't have gotten those two goals.."

Thoughtfulness plays along the brunet's countenance at that, almost as if mulling it around within his mind, but then snorts. "Listen here, Marquinho, none of that was your fault. Don't blame yourself over that." A single, russet hand goes to the keeper's back and rubs tiny, soothing circles there.

"That's the thing, it's my job to stop that from happening. I couldn't.. Could have saved the team if I would have just moved a second faster. Then maybe the score would have been one to zero, not two to zero."

Rafinha watches as the blond buries his face within his hands, and he feels himself unconsciously wince at that. "You don't carry the weight of the team on your shoulders, y'know. It wasn't your fault, and there was nothing you could have done to stop it. The first one? That was a bad pass and luck on their end. The second time? That penalty kick? Not even your godly Neuer could have stopped it."

The tell-tale shuddering of shoulders alerts the brunet that it was deeper than he had originally thought, and he curses to himself in Portuguese. But the blond doesn't speak further on the topic, the sound of a sharply inhaled gasp interrupting the silence. Nimble fingers shift from his back in favor of threading within blond locks, smoothing his hair down neatly. The other hand blindly reaches backwards for the remote somewhere behind him to turn the television on, ultimately drowning out the sounds of his soft sniffles.

Eventually the blond shifts in position and leans towards the Brazilian's awaiting shoulder, burying his damp face in the crook of his neck. Russet arms almost instantaneously embrace his shuddering form, resting his chin upon faintly damp locks. It was rare that the stoic German would express such melancholy emotion, so much so that the brunet was uncertain as to how he should properly handle it.

"Não chore, por favor.. Tudo vai dar certo." It's barely audible over the sound of rapid-fire Spanish on the television but he knows that the blond could hear it: "Você é incrível. Você fez o que podia." He shifts his countenance downwards to nuzzle his nose into sticky locks then presses a tender kiss to the crown of his head. 

"I tried, I did.." Marc sounds so broken, so unlike him, and the brunet has the weary feeling that he may possibly cry as well. "I'm so sorry we couldn't win.."

Rafinha winces once more at that but decides not to touch on that subject. "We win a team, we lose a team." He hopes that it helps in some way, though the reassuring smile on his lips twitches downward into a small frown. "Well, hey? We should talk about all those amazing saves you made, those saved us from being completely murdered. That counts for something, doesn't it? At least I still have pride in what we did today."

"We still got slayed today, though."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like we haven't lost the Champions League before, right? What I'm saying is, this loss doesn't mean anything, not to me. You're still my favorite player other than Thi. You know that, right? You played one helluva game out there and I was proud regardless of what the stupid score was, stupid."

Marc hiccups a laugh at that and nuzzles more into the warmth of Rafinha's neck, the faint scent of cologne mingled with musk present there from the humidity. "Are you just saying that be-becau—" Hiccup. "Because I'm crying and your one weakness is tears?"

"Not gonna lie, that's partially it. Merdinha. But it's still not a lie, you are my favorite, my favorite keeper. A keeper in more than one way, even when you're wetting up my favorite shirt with your face." Teases the Brazilian lightheartedly, which earns him another soft snort from the blond.

"This is actually my shirt," murmurs the blond into the latter's neck, pressing a tender kiss where his pulse is the strongest. "You stole it, remember? Never gave it back."

"Then by all means, please continue what you're doing and fill it with wrinkles." Rafinha snickers in amusement as he shifts more comfortably on the bed, the blond finally withdrawing to scowl at him through reddened eyes.

Marc maneuvers himself upon the bed until he's in a lounging position, staring up at the brunet, who gazes at him quizzically then quirks a brow. "My favorite player is still Neuer," he quips with a teasing grin as he wipes at his eyes with the back of his arm, sniffling softly as he does so.

Rafinha rolls his eyes promptly almost as if he expected that answer but lays down beside him nonetheless. He mimics the latter and props himself up on one of his elbows, a reassuring smile finding its way onto his lips once more: "I take back all those nice things I said then. How about that?"

Another sound emanates from the blond—torn between another hiccup and a chuckle—as he extends a leg to tangle it with the brunet's. "You're my favorite midfielder. Better?"

Chocolate eyes narrow in his general vicinity, nimble fingers raising to plump lips, tapping at them suggestively. "My heart hurts, Marquinho. A kiss could fix it, though." 

"Your lips are no way connected to your heart, Rafa. Your logic is flawed." Marc murmurs quietly as he blinks away the remainder of tears clinging to his lashes, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips.

"Hey, now. Who says? My heart and lips are connected." Rafinha murmurs as he awkwardly scoots closer towards the blond, one of his idle hands reaching for the latter's, placing his pale hand above his heart through the shirt. "Now, pay attention." Chocolate eyes stare pointedly into the latter's, bluer ones perplexed, brows furrowed tightly. 

With that the brunet leans forward, head already slightly tilted, to connect their lips in a chaste peck. Only a faint change in heartbeat, but the brunet doesn't retreat, instead he pecks him once more. One of his russet hands finds the back of the latter's head and holds him in place as he adds momentum to the kiss, parting his lips slightly to capture Marc's bottom lip between his own. He offers a soft tug but releases it half a heartbeat later in favor of slipping his tongue in between thin lips, seeking out the hotness of his cavern, tongue gliding along the roof of his mouth and thoroughly exploring.

The hand at his chest clenches into his shirt and bunches the fabric, tugging him closer, nails barely registering through the material as they bluntly scrape against tanned skin. Marc doesn't relent and neither does the Brazilian as the two release their frustrations in the form of kisses; tongues meeting halfway, lips nipping and pecking.

Then seconds later the Brazilian is switching the position in favor of straddling the blond's lap, not breaking the kiss in the slightest. He twines fingers with one of Marc's hands and pins it above his head while the other seeks out the idle in favor of placing it back over his heart once more. His lips grind down onto the blond's for emphasis as he continues to take control of the kiss, feeling the dampness of tears against his own countenance.

But then the brunet is withdrawing from the kiss and presses his forehead against the blond's. "See that? Win or lose, my heart still beats for you. And it won't stop over some stupid loss. Nothing's a loss, not when I have you after a game."

"Y-you're right." Marc's breathless when he speaks, neck craning upwards in an attempt to reconnect their lips, but to no avail. "Rafa.. You're right.." He groans but the brunet only stares down at him as he shifts his head back to take in the sight of his flushed face. "I won't ever count it as a loss until I don't have you to come home to. I don't know why I didn't see it that way before, it just—It just occurred to me now, when you said that."

Rafinha smiles broadly at that and brushes the pad of his thumb along the latter's thin bottom lip, "Think of it like that then? So stop beating yourself up about it, will you? You were bumming me out before."

Marc narrows his gaze into a scowl at the brunet but he means no ill-intent when he does so. "Because _I_ was bummed out. But now? Not so much. I actually feel like a winner right now."

"Okay, stop. Enough with the sappy-sappy romance talk, please. We've had enough of that today and I would rather just order some room-service and then go to sleep. I'm tired."

The blond reaches for the brunet's shirt—his shirt, actually—and tugs him down for another litany of kisses before releasing him with a toothy grin. "Can I be your dessert this evening?"

Rafinha snorts obnoxiously loud at that as he slides off of the blond's lap in favor of crawling up the bed towards the phone that rests on the nightstand beside it. "Learning pick-up lines from Neymar in your downtime isn't going to help you score."

"It was worth a shot," murmurs the blond as he sneaks in behind Rafinha, who's currently on his knees with phone in hand. Large hands wrap around his waist and tug him back against his chest, his chin resting upon his shoulder. 

Plump lips are stuttering heavily as he orders their evening meal, head canting to the side as he allows the blond to pepper kisses along the smooth skin of his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> Congrats to Atletico, though. They played well, and they deserve it.
> 
> Disappointed that we lost, I know we're better than that. We've been having off-games though but, ultimately, the better team won.


End file.
